


The Aroma Of Memories

by AuroraKant



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alfred Pennyworth Keeps the Family Together, But he still misses the Food, Cooking, Cultural Differences, Damian Wayne Feels, Damian Wayne Loves His Grandpa Challenge 2020, Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, Damian had a Shitty Childhood, Food, Gen, Good Grandparent Alfred Pennyworth, He Grew Up There, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, It Is Ra's Fault That This Boy Has Such A Weird Relationship With Food, Of Screen Past Character Death, Pakistani!Damian Wayne, Past Child Abuse, The Boy Misses The Food Of His Home Country, YeetDC2020, so much food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:40:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26025841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraKant/pseuds/AuroraKant
Summary: His heart was full when he recognized the next wave of aroma that greeted him as well: Garam Masala.Cinnamon and cumin and nutmeg and fennel and coriander and cloves.It was a delicious smell, one that felt like a warm hug and a tender touch, something that felt like heat in the summer and safety in the winter. He could taste it on the tip of his tongue, like a childhood memory, the idea of black pepper just touching his throat.Or: Alfred cooks Biryani to cheer Damian up, the two of them trade secrets, memories, and tears - copious amounts of food get cooked, while not just the reader realizes thatdil ka raasta pait se ho ke jata hai- the route to the heart passes through the stomach.
Relationships: Alfred Pennyworth & Damian Wayne
Comments: 36
Kudos: 151
Collections: Damian Loves His Grandpa Challenge 2020





	The Aroma Of Memories

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> DC has treated our poor boy Damian like shit for some tome now - so it is time for this counter event!  
> Give Damian and Alfred all the love on Alfred's death day anniversary! The man deserves it! The boy as well!  
> The amazingly talented CKBookish helped me to edit this behemoth, and the wonderful sweet Gemini_Baby made sure I didn't misuse Urdu and that I represented her home country Pakistan respectfully! (my sole goal was making her hungry)  
> Many thanks also to Gem for providing me with the stanza (and an unofficial translation for it) at the beginning of this!  
> I hope you can enjoy this! <3  
> Kudos, comments, bookmarks and the love that you enjoyed this make my author heart happy! <3

baiTh jaatā huuñ jahāñ chhāñv ghanī hotī hai

haa.e kyā chiiz ġharīb-ul-vatanī hotī ha

_I sit wherever the shadow of a tree is dense and deep_

_Oh, alas what this thing immigration - away from home - exile is_

* * *

Damian looked up from his drawing only to be greeted by silence.

It was weird. He could have sworn that something must have happened to pull him from his rather meditative headspace. Richard had once told him that Damian was utterly silent when he was drawing, and that nothing that Richard did could pull him from the intense focus with which Damian worked on his paintings and sketches and art pieces.

At first Damian hadn’t believed him, such a high level of concentration on such a low-level task, something that would have angered Grandfather, something that would have been a weak spot while Damian was with the League. Losing focus of your surroundings was a vulnerability that Grandfather – or even Mother – would not have left unexplored. So, why did Grayson claim such things?

But the longer Damian had lived at the Manor and the Penthouse (and in his room in Richard’s adequate Blüdhaven apartment) the more he noticed it himself:

He relaxed and vanished into this world that solely consisted of colors and angles and strokes. His entire mind would focus on the best mixture of red and blue to achieve a truly magnificent purple or his fingers would burn with the force he used to keep them in perfect posture as he sketched Titus’s soft snout.

Richard said it was a sign that Damian felt welcome, that Damian knew he had a home in all of these houses, in all of their hearts, and the more time pasted with no attack waiting on the other side of such an intense concentration phase, the more Damian might have actually started to believe it himself.

Which was why he was mildly confused right now.

His drawing was only half finished, Poison Ivy’s wedding gown not yet colored and Harley Quinn’s barely more than a mess of pencil lines, and nothing loud or suspicious was to be heard.

Maybe that was why he had been forcefully returned from his mental safe heaven.

It was only rarely silent in the Manor Halls. Only this morning Damian had to talk to Father because Cassandra’s loud hip-hop music had been grating on his nerves – and his ability to finish this frivolous thing Gotham Academy called homework.

But Cassandra hadn’t been the end of it, Todd and Drake had gotten into a screaming match in the front hall when they both tried to sneak into the Manor to fetch something case related, and Father himself had loudly talked on the phone with _that_ reporter when Damian had tried to finish his lunch in silence.

Now not a single one of them could be heard.

For a second Damian wanted to be alarmed (Maybe they were under attack? What if something had happened? Had Damian forgotten about an important date?) but then his memories set back in: Father was at a late luncheon, Cassandra and Drake at the Cool-Kids-Lake (Brown’s words not his) with Stephanie, and Duke hadn’t left his room in over two days since he had an end of term paper he needed to finish.

Neither Richard nor Todd lived at the Manor, so Damian hadn’t expected to hear them at all.

(Even if he missed Richard – but that had gotten better ever since Father and Richard had _a talk_ and Damian got his own room at Richard’s place)

It was silent – and it smelled absolutely amazing.

Now that Damian had ruled out an attack, he noticed what had probably broken his concentration in the first place: the overwhelming smell of warm curcuma and cardamom. It smelled sweet, deep and spicy--like warmth in a way Damian hadn’t known he’d missed.

The manor had never smelled like this before, almost none of the dishes Pennyworth usually prepared had this intense of flavor or smell.

For a moment Damian fought with himself, the urge to stay and finish his painting at odds with his intense curiosity regarding just what Pennyworth was cooking in the kitchen.

(and it had to be Pennyworth – Father and Drake were a disaster when confronted with an oven, Cassandra had once eaten a raw snail while looking straight at Damian, Richard favored the microwave over anything resembling a stove, and Todd never stayed long enough to cook. Damian wasn’t sure if he had ever even encountered Thomas close to a kitchen before)

In the end his curiosity won, and Damian didn’t even feel bad about. No, in the contrary – he felt excited.

His steps were light as he followed the well-known path from his room, down two sets of stairs, and past the downstairs library and the pallor towards the kitchen. Which each step he took, the smell got stronger. Better. Warmer.

There was now something sweet in the air as well, something that reminded Damian of the plump, overripe date bushes that had grown outside the compound he had spent most of his younger years at, and how overwhelmingly sweet they had tasted when Damian had dared to snatch one and eat it in secret.

His heart was full when he recognized the next wave of aroma that greeted him as well: Garam Masala.

Cinnamon and cumin and nutmeg and fennel and coriander and cloves.

It was a delicious smell, one that felt like a warm hug and a tender touch, something that felt like heat in the summer and safety in the winter. He could taste it on the tip of his tongue, like a childhood memory, the idea of black pepper just touching his throat.

He rarely smelled something so warm and inviting in Gotham. Spices like cinnamon and cardamom and coriander were only used in dishes around the Christmas time. But Garam Masala wasn’t a Christmas spice or something for the holidays – Garam Masala was the smell of good food after a day full of hard work.

Damian couldn’t stop his feet from breeching the threshold into the kitchen, the urge to find the source of all these delicious aromas was just too strong. Normally Damian wouldn’t allow himself an indulgence like this, but right now he wanted to.

Pennyworth stood with his back to the door, focused on the task at hand. Multiple pots were bubbling on the stove and Damian could see the trademark orange smudges that came from cooking with curcuma.

“What are you doing, Pennyworth?”

The man in question hadn’t noticed him, and Damian welt a twinge of shame when Pennyworth jumped, his knife flying out of his hand and through the room. Nothing bad happened, the deadly weapon only dirtied the floor with a bang, but Damian couldn’t quite quell the ‘sorry’ that wanted to escape his lips.

He suppressed it successfully though, his head held high as he awaited punishment or absolution.

Even years spent away from the League, from the teachings of his Grandfather, had not yet eased the fear that took hold of Damian’s heart whenever he made a mistake. He wanted to say sorry, to beg, but the terror of appearing weak was so much stronger than the horror of pain and punishment.

Pennyworth didn’t strike him, of course, the butler was far too old and regal for menial things like that. Instead, Damian could feel the inquiring gaze of the old man wander over Damian’s leisure clothes: dark slacks, and a soft hoodie he had… borrowed from Drake.

Damian suspected that the hoodie had originally belonged to Richard once upon a time, before wandering through the hands of multiple members of the family. He was pretty sure he saw Cassandra wear it once as well.

“I am cooking, Master Damian.”

“Hah, I can see that.”

Another long look, and another wave of shame crashed over Damian.

If only he could hold his tongue, if only he could be like everyone else. But Pennyworth didn’t reprimand him for his harsh tone, had really only done so the first few weeks they had known each other-- when Damian had stood for something else, for a legacy Father had never wanted. Now, Pennyworth only sighted in disappointment when he was annoyed with Damian. Not even Damian could wear down the temper of the old man.

“I am cooking Biryani to be more exact, Master Damian. If you could be so nice and fetch me the knife that got so carelessly thrown around? And get me a new one as well?”

Damian complied. Of course, he did. His feet were carrying him towards the knife, his hands steady as he picked it up, before disposing it in the dishwasher. His body was steady – but his mind was reeling.

Biryani had once been his comfort food.

It wasn’t an easy dish to perfect, but it also wasn’t too complicated or too hard to get right. It was exactly in the middle, exactly the kind of meal Damian could hope to achieve if he was good. A good son, a good grandson, a good assassin.

Maybe that meant that Damian should hate the dish. It was the symbol of people turning him into something he was not, after all, but not even the smallest part of his heart could say no to the promise of Biryani. Because… food stood for everything that had been good.

Sweet halwa after training shared with Ravi or his Mother had been the best moments of his childhood, the sugar heavy and sweet on his tongue, the saffron subtle and yet strong in his nose. Damian would never forget the special aftertaste Ghee gave the _suji ka halwa_ his Mother preferred, with the raw milk bringing entirely new flavors to the forefront of the dish.

You didn’t get milk like that in America. You only got the packaged stuff, the white liquid that smelled of nothing and tasted like plastic.

The milk Mother had used was different. Heavier. Creamier. It tasted like the animal it came from and it warmed him late into the night, even if Grandfather had forbidden him from eating dinner.

Halwa was something he shared with Mother and Ravi, their secret on the good days. The happy days. The days on which Damian had almost been a child, a kid, something innocent.

Biryani was something he shared with the entirety of the League. Because it was what they ate before a battle or a mission, it was what they ate when they returned home successfully – or what they got as a last meal should the Demon’s Head be disappointed with their efforts.

Biryani made you full, and with each bite you found something new to enjoy, another spice to tingle your tongue, another flavor to satisfy your senses. Damian had always been full and happy when he went to bed after they had eaten Biryani, his stomach satisfied with his meal, the knowledge that he was safe heavy on his mind.

Biryani meant Grandfather was happy – at least with him.

Biryani meant Damian got to see another day.

“Everything alright, Master Damian?”

Rather forcefully Damian returned to the present, belated realizing that he was still standing in front of the dishwasher, dirty knife clutched tight in his fist. He needed to answer, his brain told him, but his mouth was already running away from him:

“I hadn’t had that in ages…”

While true, Damian was shocked by how improper his own voice sounded as he mumbled the sentence, every pronunciation lesson failing him, every hour spent on teaching him manners he forgotten.

Biryani had stayed in Pakistan when he had left the compound he had called home behind knowing full well that Grandfather would find someplace new to torture people from. Ra’s al Ghul wasn’t tied to one place – but Damian had always called Pakistan his home, the mountains his heart.

Of course, many places in Gotham offered Indian or Pakistani food, but Damian had never dared to step inside one of them. What if they tasted different than the familiar flavors of his home county? Or worse: what if they tasted the same?

Richard had asked him for his favorite recipes in the first week they had lived together in the penthouse, still raw from Father’s death, and Damian had told him that he wouldn’t eat something inadequately prepared by Richard or Pennyworth anyway.

He hadn’t meant it. The homesickness had been so much worse back then. Damian had cried sometimes at night, his stomach taunt with the desire for familiar food, for smells and spices he knew, for sensations that felt warm instead of cold and rainy.

But admitting that would have been weak. It would have proven that Damian had been the wrong choice, that Robin belonged in the hands of another. It would have shown that Damian was not yet a true Gothamite. Damian had been awfully sure that his longing for tastes he could relate to signaled to Richard (and Pennyworth) that Damian was still loyal to the League. Then they would have sent him away.

They never asked again, their dinners just suddenly incorporated a bit more spice than before. But since neither of his guardians ever spoke about it, Damian didn’t either.

It had been years later, that Damian had realized that men like Richard and Pennyworth and his Father were more than capable of separating the League from the country Damian had grown up in. That Damian liking Garam Masala in his dishes, and drinking chai the proper way didn’t mean that he wanted to be an assassin, but that he missed the culture he had inherited. The culture he knew. The culture that was _his_ and not his Father’s.

But by the time he had realized that, it had already been too late – everyone knew not to expect Damian to offer up tidbits about the food or music or clothing he liked. Only Richard seemed to understand – or maybe Damian only let Richard get close enough to understand – the hurt that came with remembering the place you came from, knowing that you could never return.

And Damian found comfort in the understanding eyes of his brother never demanding more than this sliver of love, this tablespoon of knowing.

But now he was standing in the Manor kitchen, staring at Pennyworth, as the spiced curcuma rice boiled on the stove top, and the Garam Masala popped and sputtered in the hot Ghee.

The smells were overwhelming.

The aroma was everywhere.

Damian wanted to cry, only he wouldn’t. Damian wanted to cry, but instead he pressed his mouth tight to spare himself another embarrassment and continued to stare. It was Pennyworth that broke their silence first, his voice even and soft, as he took a new knife from the knife rack and started to turn ginger and garlic into one smooth paste with only his hands and a wickedly sharp blade as an aid.

‘ _Pis Lehsun Adrak – it makes the flavor deep and your soul warm,_ chhutkoo’

“When I came here – to Gotham that is – from Britain, I was disgusted by the food. So much oil in everything… it was greasy, I thought to myself--and I come from a small town in Cheswick, we fried butter in Pubs and served it as bar food-- but everything just always tasted wrong here. They couldn’t even drink tea right, these Americans.”

Damian listened, his feet still frozen, his ears still ringing with the deep voice of the chef Damian had pestered, when he was seven, to show him how to cook. Hamza, the cook had been called. He always smiled when he saw Damian.

Pennyworth’s voice was warm, something wistful deep inside of it. Damian wasn’t sure if he had ever heard the older man speak like this. Maybe this was the voice Pennyworth shared with Father, with the other children that had saw Pennyworth as a grandfather and not just a high standing servant.

(Damian had no idea what Pennyworth was to him)

“So, one day I decided to cook my favorite food myself. I was a lousy cook back then, and the steak and kidney pie tasted disgusting. Wrong, too salty, and like disappointment. I swore to never try it again. Only a month later saw me drunk and homesick, so I tried again. And failed again. A month later, it was the same sight.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Damian pushed through the chains holding his tongue down, through the nostalgia making his heart bleed, and his soul beg for the food of the worthy.

He sounded young. Insecure. Weak.

Pennyworth only smiled.

“After a while, I came to love this sad version of steak and kidney pie. I visited Cheswick a few months ago and tried one in my favorite Pub. Disgusting.”

“Disgusting?”

“It didn’t taste like home anymore.”

Damian wasn’t sure why he was being told this inane story, or why he stayed and watched as Pennyworth added the Pis Lehsun Adrak to the sizzling spices. Only now did he notice the tofu that had been cured and browned in the pan as well.

You didn’t cook Biryani with tofu, chicken the most common protein to add to this delicious dish. In the League all kinds of meat had been added, depending on what they had on hand. They would only killthe animals they had to,ones nature had offered them. But Damian had decided to become a vegetarian when he got to know the US, uncomfortable with the way the animals were treated here.

Damian was also the only vegetarian in their family.

There was no one else Pennyworth would cook a vegetarian version of a well-known meat dish for. Heck, now that Damian thought about it, there was no one else at home besides the two of them, no one else here to eat the dish that was already smelling divine, even though Pennyworth hadn’t even added the Haldi and Laal Mirch to it.

“Can you help me and add the chili powder and the turmeric?”

Pennyworth didn’t wait for an answer, trusting the two boxes with spices into Damian’s hands. Damian knew what to do with them, having watched Hamza for hours on end, whenever he was free. Orange, yellow, red, deep brown and rust red like a mandala mingled in the air, before it hid the hot Ghee and fed the entire League.

Ginger and garlic hung heavy in the air as it cooked out, giving its flavor to the tofu and the spice paste that was slowly building up. Damian went liberal on the Laal Mirch, remembering how much he had loved the burn on his tongue and the heat that swept down into his stomach whenever the cook accidently used too much of the chili powder.

Damian watched as Pennyworth added the Pisa Dhania – the raw coriander – to the pot of spices. It smelled celestial. It smelled mouth-watering. It smelled like all the things Damian hadn’t even noticed he had missed.

For a few minutes, silence returned to the kitchen, Pennyworth keeping an eye on the rice and the pot, Damian staring at the deep red-brown paste at the bottom of their dish. There was a lot of waiting for the right moment involved in getting a Biryani right.

The spices shouldn’t be raw anymore – but nobody wanted the bitter aftertaste of burned coriander clogging up their senses.

You wanted the flavors heavy, the aromas strong, but you didn’t want them to overwhelm you.

It was a bit like drawing, a bit like being an artist, to be a chef in a kitchen, capable of creating masterpieces ready for consumption.

Damian had never looked at it like that before, but in his very own way Pennyworth was just as much of an artist as he was. Because Pennyworth could turn some spices, a pack of tofu, onions, garlic, yogurt and tomatoes into something that made Damian _think_.

Someone great had probably once said: “Art is not about the talent or the place it is presented at – Art is about the emotion it makes you feel, the train of thought it inspires. Art doesn’t happen in your wallet or your brain, Art takes place in your heart.”

It was a cheesy quote Damian had found online when he had been searching for references for his next piece, but for some reason it stuck with him. Maybe because it was what he wanted to hear. Maybe because it felt a bit like offering up his soul whenever he gifted someone one of his drawings, but Damian could relate.

And just looking at Pennyworth, at the curcuma and cumin stains that would never leave the work surface ever again, Damian realizes that cooking was much the same.

Because why else would Pennyworth sacrifice his free afternoon to cook a dish he had never made before, in a version only one member of this family would appreciate, for a person he had only rarely spent a tender moment with in the past.

Pennyworth was making Biryani for him. Even if neither of them acknowledged it, Pennyworth was cooking for him, and while doing so, he offered a part of his heart for Damian to take.

Damian watched as Pennyworth added water to the spice paste, intensifying the nostalgia living in the air for only a moment, before the steam diluted the aroma. Again, both of them focused on the pan. Again, they waited in silence.

That was until Pennyworth turned away, returning to the cutting board, plump dates ready for the taking sitting upon it, that Damian shook the drossiness of memory far enough to exclaim:

“What are you doing with the dates?”

“Adding them to the dish?”

Pennyworth was raising an eyebrow, his question visible not just in his words but his face as well. Pennyworth was daring him to speak, and Damian gave into the challenge.

“There are no dates in Biryani.”

“Oh, I know. But I thought the flavor would add greatly to the spicy-ness of the Korma and the herby-ness of the pilaf rice. Is anything wrong with that?”

Damian took a step back, their earlier conversation still ringing in his ears. Maybe he had misunderstood? But, no. He couldn’t see the sense behind Pennyworth telling him this story about some weird savory pie with an ending like that, while cooking Damian’s favorite dish (that he never told the man about) just to… just to change everything up.

“I do not understand. Why tell me the story, why cook Biryani at all, when you are only going to do it wrong?”

Pennyworth put down the knife, and closed the distance between the two of them, his gaze heavy and sad. For a moment Damian pushed down the image of his Grandfather overlapping with Pennyworth, ignoring his instincts that told him to run, the muscles that wanted to flinch.

Pennyworth didn’t hit him, he barely even touched him.

A soft hand fell on Damian’s shoulder, forcing the boy to look up, and the understanding in Pennyworth’s eyes threatened to be too much.

“No matter what I do, this Biryani will taste wrong. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get the same ingredients the League probably used, or that are fresh in Pakistan but not native to the US. I was going to fail from the very first moment I decided to cook this dish.”

“They why even try?”

“Because trying to not longingly glance in the direction of every traditional Pakistani or Indian restaurant in Gotham for the rest of your time here, isn’t the answer either.”

Damian lost his battle. He flinched back at the mention of his shameful behavior, embarrassment burning bright in his cheeks.

He should be grateful for everything Father had given him, for the food and the home and the love he had been provided with – and he tried! – but somehow his misgivings had still been noticed. His furtive glances towards that one Indian corner store that always had copious amounts of halwa laying in its front windows, or the Pakistani restaurant in Conner Street Damian once had to spend an entire stake out opposite off, only to constantly smell the _Palak Gosht_ and feel his stomach grumble in protest.

He didn’t want to be ungrateful – _he wasn’t_ – but it felt as if he was throwing everything his Father had given him away, by longing for something everyone told him had been bad.

And the League had been the bad guys! Damian knew that. But Pakistan hadn’t. The mountain ranges he had played on when Grandfather was in a good mood had never hurt anyone, and neither had the people from the surrounding villages that worked the fields or helped fix the compound. No, these people had been nice. They laughed and told jokes, smuggling Damian and the other kids homemade sweets when nobody was looking.

Their halwa tasted different from the one his Mother made, firmer and less gooey, but that didn’t make it any less amazing. Any less the best part of any day.

He didn’t want them to think that he hated them, that he hated his Father’s family, just because he longed for another part of himself as well.

It was hard to suppress the shiver, even harder to stand tall, as Pennyworth’s gaze added another layer of judgement pressing down on his shoulders. But Damian had been taught to take any punishment – no matter how cruel – with his head held high.

An al Ghul didn’t bow, and if Damian had learned anything in his time at the Manor, it was that a Wayne didn’t either.

“I am sorry, son. I didn’t mean to upset you – I was rather trying to cook you this dish as an offering of peace.”

“An offering of peace?” Echoed Damian, the confusion making it easier for him to speak, to withstand the urge to cower.

“I noticed how deliberately you used the chili powder present on the table during the last few meals – Master Timothy’s diet sadly doesn’t allow for spicy or salty food – and I wanted to offer you something a bit more… heavy on different flavor notes.”

“And why this? Why Biryani… Why Chicken Biryani even if you switched the meat with tofu?”

Damian’s heart was beating fast, his breath coming in little puffs. He was better than this, usually. Normally he could push his expectations away. He could bury his own body’s reaction to perceived danger far, far down, since he knew nobody would hurt him here.

Father had never struck him. Pennyworth neither, and Richard dealt in hugs, especially when it came to Damian, offering touch only ever in the context of affection and gratification.

But just the smell so present all around them, the coriander tingling his nose, the red chili power tempting him to sneeze, the Garam Masala hugging him with a warmth he hadn’t asked for… suddenly he was nine again and disappointing his Grandfather.

“I… I am sorry if I made a mistake, young sir, but I searched for common Pakistani dishes, and everywhere I looked Biryani was the answer. I… I can cook someone else if it upsets you. I heard many dishes in South Argentina also carry a good amount of spice and depth…”

“No!”

Suddenly the worst thing that could happen would be for Pennyworth to stop cooking this dish. Suddenly Damian knew that he would never allow himself another taste of home if he said yes now and watched as Pennyworth destroyed what he had created.

Every artist needed to finish their piece, even if that meant sadness. Even if it was less than perfect.

“If you are sure…?”

“Yes. Finish cooking the Biryani, Pennyworth.”

Another raised eyebrow. But instead of the reprimand Damian probably deserved, the old man only turned around, taking the diced tomatoes and the yogurt sitting ready on the counter and adding them to the pot together with the offending dates.

A fresh smell waved through the kitchen and Damian could feel a twinge in his heart – and his stomach. He was growing hungry.

Hungry and confused.

He wanted to eat this food, he wanted to taste all the flavors he had dreamed about for years, and yet he knew that it wouldn’t be the same. That no matter what Pennyworth did – what he had deliberately changed – the Biryani would taste nothing like the one he had eaten in the great hall surrounded by his friends and enemies and family.

Neither his head nor his heart could decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

They were silent once more, Damian nervously watching what Pennyworth was doing, his hands clutched in front of his stomach, shoulders tensed to suppress his need to sway on the balms of his feet. The butler was moving very deliberately, his body signaling every movement before Pennyworth followed through.

So, the man knew that he had spooked Damian.

Damian wasn’t sure if he liked being this known, this easy to read, but right now he could only be grateful. The soft movements of Pennyworth eased his fraying nerves.

It had something meditative, something that reminded Damian of the trance he fell into whenever he was truly relaxed while drawing, to watch Pennyworth cook. To watch as the older man kept a close eye to the bubbling dishes, adding browned onions, and Garam Masala when necessary.

Damian still wasn’t sure what he was feeling, but some part of him wanted to share with Pennyworth what Pennyworth had shared with him.

Maybe it was foolish, or maybe it was a thank you:

“I… I liked the kitchen best. It was always warm in there, and it got awfully cold in the mountains where I grew up. Especially in the winter. But the kitchen was always warm. And it smelled great. The cook, Hamza-- he liked me-- showed me how he created the feasts Grandfather wanted him to cook.”

“Hm..”

Pennyworth didn’t turn around. Instead he continued cutting up fresh coriander as if he hadn’t heard a word Damian said. Everyone else would probably think that Pennyworth was ignoring them, but Damian knew better.

Pennyworth was giving him room. Space. The possibility to speak without the burden of embarrassment, the shame of being watched.

“And most of the time it was Biryani that he cooked, especially when Grandfather wanted to celebrate. Or when a warrior, an assassin had returned from a mission successfully.”

The last meal those who had failed were offered was eaten in solitude – an act of respect for those who would soon die, and an offer of honor to those who would soon lose the chance to earn theirs back.

“Hamza would let me help him with the spices. Grind up the Garam Masala or add the Laal Mirch. I never got good enough to try myself on the Ginger and Garlic paste. Pis Lehsun Adrak required skills with the knife not even my extensive weapons training could provide. But I… I enjoyed it.”

Why was he telling this story like a confession, offering up pieces of information that could easily be used against him? Why did he thank this man that was a servant – _not his Grandfather_ – with this knowledge as an exchange for food Damian hadn’t asked for?

He didn’t know.

He just continued to speak.

“It was beneath me, of course. I was – am – the Heir of the Demon’s Head, but… I liked the warmth, and the smells, and the delicious flavors I got to try when Hamza was feeling generous. Grandfather found out. Of course, he did.”

Silence fell as he .

Damian had forgotten this. He hadn’t thought about Hamza and his kitchen in ages. In years. He hadn’t allowed himself to remember the warm, rough hands that had destroyed his carefully combed hair, or the strong smell of turmeric that had followed Hamza everywhere.

He hadn’t allowed himself to remember.

“If you don’t mind me asking, Master Damian, what happened next?”

“He died. Got killed. Executed. Grandfather made me watch, said it was a lesson in endurance and human empathy. Just as burning Ravi’s hands had been a lesson in compassion, or Mother’s tests a proof of loyalty.”

What he didn’t say was that Grandfather had forbidden him from eating for a week following the execution and that the Biryani that had been brought to him afterwards had been the best and the worst thing he had ever tasted.

He missed the flavors of home. The coriander present in everything, the cumin you almost couldn’t escape, the cinnamon and cloves and garlic that turned everything warm, everything safe. He wasn’t sure what it meant that he missed all these things, memories of the horrors he survived almost as present as the aromas dancing across the tip of his tongue.

“I am sorry to hear that, son. I only wanted to do something nice for you by cooking this meal. It was never my intention to bring up painful memories of days past.”

Pennyworth sounded truly apologetic, and Damian dared a glance, seeing that the man had turned around to look at him. Sorrow pronounced the wrinkles in Pennyworth’s face more than usual, making Damian’s heart seize.

The man was sorry for doing something nice, and Damian didn’t know how to explain just what he was feeling. His heart was too much of a tumbling mess, his stomach a rolling ball of want and disgust.

“Don’t be sorry, Pennyworth. I… I have been craving Garam Masala as a spice since the first day I stepped into this Manor. And Biryani… Biryani will always stay my favorite food, even if I…”

“Yes?”

“Even if I can’t quite discern why I still love it. There is so much pain connected to this one simple dish, but whenever I think of home-- of the mountain base-- it’s Biryani that comes to my mind. And then suddenly I can’t imagine anything better than tasting the Korma and the rice, the spices so vibrant they feel surreal.”

Damian had pried himself wide open with his words, leaving so much room for pain. It hurt to think about what Pennyworth would be capable of doing with this knowledge. Damian had presented himself as weak, confused, lost – he had laid his pride into Pennyworth’s hands and now he could only hope that the man would treat it with the respect it deserved.

“Hm, we are all complex human beings, Master Damian, and many things are tied to different experiences we had in our youth. Steak and Kidney pie tastes like Cheswick for me, even if the pie I make has little to do with the original, it will always be both: My homesickness and my home. And this Biryani – it can be what you love about your past, just as much as it stands for what you hated and feared.”

Pennyworth added the water and the last finishing touches to the Korma bubbling away on the stove, covering the pan with a lid, taking the rice of the heat and putting it in a colander. His movements were mechanical, trained – the motions of a person who had spent years inside a kitchen. Years, perfecting every task and grip.

Only when the rice was safely in the colander, steam rising up in the already humid air of the kitchen, did Pennyworth turn around to return Damian’s stare.

“Do you want me to finish cooking this dish, son? And please answer truthfully. I can still turn this into a curry or a different meal. Nothing is lost yet. Just tell me, I see no need to upset you any further.”

If these words had been his Grandfather’s Damian would have known them to be a test. But Pennyworth never tested him like that. Pennyworth only offered disappointment and the refinements of social norms. Sometimes they hurt just as bad, but right now Damian could see what Pennyworth wanted: the truth and nothing but the truth.

“I would love to eat the Biryani you are preparing Pennyworth. It would be an honor. Thank you.”

Pennyworth stopped drying his hands on the kitchen towel, something complicated happening in his face. Damian didn’t know the older man well enough to be able to read which kind of emotions danced across the wrinkled face in front of him, but suddenly two thin – but surprisingly strong – arms engulfed him.

Alfred didn’t smell like Hamza.

He smelled like laundry detergent, burned curcuma, and sugar. And he smelled like the Manor. Like home.

Pennyworth’s voice was soft as he whispered into Damian’s ear:

“It will always be an honor _for me_ , to prepare meals for the Lost Boys of this Manor. I cannot protect you when you are out there, but I will do my damnedest to offer you every kind of comfort while you are in my home. My kitchen. My care.”

Damian wanted to struggle against the hold, to declare his superiority to any kind of affection, but instead he just melted further into the embrace. These memories, the delicious smells, were making him weak – he hadn’t allowed himself such softness since the last weekend he had spent at Richard’s place, waking up to the man consoling him after a nightmare.

Richard was the only one Damian allowed himself to be this open with – at least he had been the only one for a long, long time.

Now it seemed as if Pennyworth was asking for permission to enter Damian’s heart as well. Damian’s answer was a cease in struggle. His answer was a silent hum of content.

“Food is a way towards the heart, my boy, and we all need it to survive. I was a horrible cook in my younger years, I believe I’ve told you, but first I learned to cook for me – and then I learned to cook for Bruce. The boy wouldn’t eat anything sweet for years, since it reminded him of his parents, but there came a day in which he couldn’t resist my homemade ice cream, smiling the entire time he ate it.”

Damian only stood there, listening to Alfred’s confessions of love. The pot behind them was bubbling silently, the Korma coming together while they offered up their hearts.

“Dick was quite different. He hated everything I cooked – because it didn’t taste like his mother’s cooking in their small trailer kitchen. So, I tried to get creative, making Borscht-- with his help so he couldn’t say no when I offered him a plate. He was still a picky eater, but I never saw someone smile like I did Dick when we cooked his mother’s favorite dish together. He later told me that he didn’t even like it – but now Borscht would always remind him of both his families.”

“Jason… the boy ate everything when he came here, his past one of food insecurity. He loved to help me in the kitchen. He learned the name of every tool, vegetable and piece of equipment. He showered me in compliments after every meal. Really, he spoiled me. And then one day, he made bread pudding for me – it was burned and raw at the same time – but it might have been the best thing I ever tasted.”

It was weird to hear these stories about children Damian only knew as men. It was odd to think that Richard and Todd had been his age once upon a time, just as scared, just as lost, as he was now. As he was trying his best not to be, and yet only rarely succeeding. Fear was an emotion that had stayed strong within him for years. Sometimes it felt as if it was growing stronger with each year, as he learned to accept love and trust and care.

“Then, of course, came Timothy, and oh, the boy gave me headaches. He would eat everything with little complaint, but as soon as I was not looking-- he was making boxed mac and cheese in the Manor Kitchen at 4am in the morning. It took me a bit to figure out, but Tim needed comfort foods, things he knew and loved and made him feel warm on the inside – we started making Mac and Cheese together when he came back from patrol.”

“What are these stories?”

“They are the moments I realized that maybe I could do something for you too. That I might not have your back in the field – but I can still take care of your wellbeing. That my food might make a difference as well – be it the ritual of preparing it together or the act of eating something that warms the heart.”

Pennyworth looked as if he wanted to say more, maybe continue with his stories about Cassandra and Thomas, but a timer behind them started to beep, reminding both of them that they were standing in a kitchen.

That there was food on the stove, and things to be done.

Damian was the first one to break the hold Pennyworth had on him, stepping back outside of the reach of Pennyworth’s arms.

He felt weird.

The worry inside of his stomach had ceased, the bubbling of nausea replaced by the gurgling of hunger, but his heart was still beating fast, his mind burning for a clear answer just this once in his life.

But there didn’t seem to be one. Maybe Pennyworth was right, maybe Damian would always love and crave the foods of his home country, while also being unable to forget his past in the League. Maybe that was the way it was supposed to be.

He was silent once more as he watched Pennyworth layer the rice and Korma in the _Dum_ , before the man added lemon juice, fresh coriander, and crushed browned onions. The air was already heavy and divine with the many mixed aromas floating around, but Damian knew that the smell would only get stronger over the next twenty minutes.

His insides were tingling, the urge to taste the dish so strong, Damian almost forgot all his earlier reservations.

Because it was all true: he missed the flavors of his childhood with a ferocity that haunted his dreams, he longed for the deep and warm aromas of Biryani, or the sweetness of halwa or the creaminess of Raita. But whenever he just tried to think of them, other memories, other thoughts pushed their way into his head as well.

The memories of Grandfather who had done his best in making Damian see food only as a necessity and not a pleasure. Who had punished him for asking for more. Who had beaten him for befriending the cook.

But there had also been his Mother, for whom not even all her years within the League had been able to dry out her sweet tooth, who had cooked him her favorite treats herself.

Ravi, who had hidden goods in the folds of his clothing, ready to sneak them to Damian, when nobody was looking.

Hamza, and his tender smile and giant hands, who never told anyone that Damian was hiding in his kitchen.

Most of them had paid the price for being nice to Damian, for giving him something others would not – but even Grandfather’s most cruel torture and punishment had been unable to destroy this urge Damian had when it came to good food, to destroy the love for spice others had kindled in Damian’s heart.

Damian loved Laal Mirch on the tip of his tongue, or the special kind of tingle that came from eating black pepper. He would always crave the special note of saffron that Mother would mix under the rice, or how cinnamon made every chai taste better.

The Manor kitchen smelled like Damian remembered his childhood smelling – when he was happy. Yes, food had been used against him, but most of the time when coriander colored the air green, and curcuma stained his hands yellow, Damian had been happy.

Hamza’s death hadn’t smelled like chili and chicken korma, Hamza’s death had smelled like iron and dusty earth.

Hamza’s death hadn’t tasted like warmth, a hug and love, Hamza’s death had tasted like tears.

Maybe it was time that Hamza’s Biryani was no longer tied to his death – but to his life.

The world came back into focus at the sound of Pennyworth setting down two plates at the counter. A spoon sat ready next to each of them. Damian sent an inquiring look into Pennyworth’s direction, and the old man smiled.

“Of course, I will eat with you. I wouldn’t go through all this work of preparing a meal, just to have you enjoy it alone.”

Damian tried to answer in like. The smile on his face felt frail and wrong and small. But Pennyworth didn’t mind. The man just continuing with his task. Damian should have offered to help, should have done something, but he stood frozen, until another timer beeped.

Until Pennyworth took the _dum_ from the heat and opened up the lid.

The intensity of the aroma made Damian’s knees weak, the air shimmering with hints of clover, cumin and garlic. His nose tickled and Damian knew it was the chili, the ginger and the turmeric. He hadn’t even eaten it yet, and his nose had already tasted a feast of flavors, the aroma of coriander so strong Damian could feel it against the top of his mouth.

As if he was in a trance, his feet carried him towards the chair at the counter. He was sitting down, and then a bowl of Biryani was placed in front of him.

He wanted to cry.

He didn’t. Instead he took the spoon, loading as much of the flavorful rice as possible onto it, and glanced towards the older man, who had taken a seat beside him. His eyes weren’t teary – they weren’t! – when he looked at Pennyworth.

“Thank you. For the food and the company.”

“It was a pleasure for me, Master Damian. I hope you can enjoy this Biryani.”

Damian put the spoon in his mouth and let the flavors explode. It was hot and spicy from the turmeric and chili, and juicy from the tomatoes. The acidic note from the yogurt and the lemon broke through the heaviness of the spice blend, brightening the dish – just as the fresh coriander gave it something herby, something wild.

The tofu stayed firm until Damian bit down, dissolving into the sauce and the rice, the browned onions small bursts of texture and bitterness. Right then the dates with the garlic and the ginger came in, hitting different spots of sweetness and spice, making it taste creamier and deeper than Damian had expected it to be.

It was delicious.

It tasted nothing like he remembered it to.

Tears were dripping down his cheeks as he bent forward to take another bite.

It tasted nothing like he remembered, and maybe that was okay.

**Author's Note:**

> For those who are interested I used this Chicken Biryani recipe for Alfred to follow:  
> https://hinzcooking.com/pakistani-biryani-cook-pakistani-style-biryani-at-home/


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